Silk Italian Scarves
by NoTimeToStop
Summary: "What's up with the scarf anyway? It's 65 degrees out." Isaac loves nice clothes, but he has a particular fondness for scarves. He's never told anyone the reason behind this preference - or the painful memories that come with it - until one girl finally cares enough to ask. Isaac/Allison. Warning: some minor language & mentions of child abuse.
**Silk Italian Scarves**

If one good thing had come from the death of his father, it was this: Isaac was better dressed. In the care of first Derek Hale and then the McCalls, they had taken it upon themselves to provide the homeless teenager with not only shelter and food, but an allowance for clothing and other necessities. A small kindness that meant more to Isaac than he could ever express.

His father had been as tight-fisted with his money as he had been heavy-fisted in his punishments. Most of Isaac's wardrobe had consisted of second-hand pieces from thrift stores and his late-brother's closet. The problem with the latter was that he was significantly smaller than his macho, older brother, and the problem with the former was finding something that a) fit properly, b) wasn't hideously stained or faded, and c) hadn't gone out of style in 1984.

The result was: Isaac dressed like a thirteen year old middle-schooler. He wore baggy, faded blue jeans held in place with a leather belt, the buckle of which had intimately known the exposed flesh of his back; cotton graphic t-shirts worn over long-sleeved dark-colored shirts, to hide the bruises on his arms; and over-sized hoodies and worn sneakers, caked in dirt from the cemetery where he worked. He could never seem to cleanse himself of the scent of decay.

He knew better than to try and dress any differently. His father disapproved of outfits varying from this image he had of the typical teenage boy: "T-shirts and hoodies not good enough for you? Don't I provide for you? You wanna walk around looking like one of them goddamn magazine models? Think you're hot shit? Come here, and I'll show you exactly what you are. I'll teach you to be grateful for what I give you."

Now that he was free of his father's domineering presence, Isaac wore whatever he wanted. He reinvented himself, or, rather, he was finally at liberty to express who he truly was through his wardrobe. He wore clothes of a quality, style, sophistication, and suaveness that had been previously unknown to him. He arrayed himself in flannel, fleece, and plaid; lambskin, mesh, and crepe; jersey, satin, velvet, and tweed. He wore short sleeves and v-necks, because the Bite had healed the scars on his arms and chest that he had spent years concealing. He filled his closet with cardigans and blazers, designer jeans and polo shirts, crew-neck sweaters and overcoats, fashionable footwear and rich scarves. The scarves were his favorite.

Fashion became a great pleasure to him. Shopping never failed to be an experience of almost orgasmic proportions. Isaac would take his time, running his long fingers down the different fabrics. He loved the friendly cashiers who smiled as they rang up his purchases, and treated him like a valued customer. He cherished every compliment he received on his wardrobe, and the sudden interest his dress sparked in the rest of his appearance. Every penny he saved went into buying clothes.

Girls that had never acknowledged his existence suddenly took notice of him. Their eyes would travel the length of his tall frame. Packaging, it seemed, was just as important as the gift inside. Girls fawned over him in the school hallways: "Becky, who is _that_?"

"That's Isaac Lahey. Isn't he handsome?"

"Handsome? He's positively _yummy_. The only thing that would look better on him than that sweater is nothing at all."

"He's so dreamy."

"He's hot."

"I wouldn't mind seeing those jeans on my bedroom floor."

With his acute wolf hearing, Isaac heard every word they said. He'd smile at the girls as they hurried past his locker, blushing or biting their lips. A couple bolder girls winked at him, passing their tongues over their glossed top lips. He enjoyed their attention, but he only had eyes for one girl.

Late one night, Isaac was stretched out on Allison's bed. She sat at her desk, poring over a textbook. Her brunette hair fell in a curtain around her face, and she absently tucked it back behind her ear. He watched her eyes as they scanned the page. Why should a book deserve her attention more than him?

Isaac climbed off the bed and stood behind her chair, rubbing her shoulders. She moaned contentedly. "That feels good." As he continued to massage her tense muscles, he leaned down and kissed her neck. "Mmm, that feels _really_ good." She forgot her book and turned around, pressing her mouth against his. She stood as their embrace intensified and leaned into him. He started to lead her over to the bed, but she pulled away.

"Not tonight," she said, breathless. "My father's in the next room."

"We'll be quiet."

"You know we won't be." She sighed as he kissed her collar bone. "You're making it hard to concentrate."

"Good."

Allison tried a new tactic. Putting her hands on his chest, she tugged playfully at his scarf. "How can you wear a scarf on a day like today?" she asked. She sounded just like Stiles, though less hostile.

"They're my favorite." There was a faraway look in his eye, as he ran his hand down the soft fabric. She knew there was a story there.

"Tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"Why do you love scarves so much?"

Isaac had never shared that story with anyone before. Mostly, because he figured no one would care. It wasn't that he thought that they didn't care about _him,_ but, well, the years before he became a werewolf, the years he'd endured almost nightly abuse at the hands of his father, no one had cared. No one had stepped in to save him. No one had seen beyond the masks be donned, the walls he put up. They hadn't taken the time to get to know him, and he had built his life on secrecy. His best talent was shutting up.

"What's up with the scarf anyway?" Stiles had asked. "It's 65 degrees out." Isaac had smirked indifferently and shrugged, passing it off like it was no big deal. He knew Stiles wasn't really asking. He was just frustrated by Isaac's realism, and maybe even a little threatened by the werewolf's good looks. He was used to Stiles' sarcasm and biting remarks. They may both have lost their mothers, but Stiles would never be able to understand: he had a father who loved and protected him, who would die before he laid a hand on his son. Stiles could never imagine what it was like when the man who was supposed to guard and love him to be the monster in his nightmares, the source of pain and fear.

Still, Isaac wished someone would take the time to get to know him, sit down and ask him questions. Since his friends had learned about the freezer, it was like they were scared to talk to him about his past. Whether because they didn't want to cause him pain or because they wanted to save themselves from guilt and discomfort, he wasn't sure. Maybe they didn't want to know and see. Maybe they didn't want to hear about what they couldn't understand.

Maybe it was better this way. If he stayed silent, he wouldn't get hurt.

But Allison was watching him with large and attentive eyes. Waiting patiently for him to answer. Suddenly, he knew, if anyone would ever understand it was her. She knew the pain of losing her mother, of being the girl on the outside looking in, of family secrets and a dark past.

"My mother," he confessed, fingering the ends of his scarf, "loved scarves. She wore them all the time. She had a whole collection of them, from all over the world. From England and Spain, France and India. Cashmere, silk, wool, pashmina, cotton, chiffon. More colors and prints than I had ever seen. Some were these crazy, bold patterns, and others were softer, pale pastels and floral. Paisley, stripes, patchwork, checkered. She had them all." He smiled sadly. "She taught me all about fabrics and styles, what scarf went with what outfit. For my ninth birthday, she knit me a lovely blue scarf. 'So you can start your own collection,' she said. I guess you could say scarves became our thing, something we shared.

"She had this one silk scarf she loved and wore all the time. It was handcrafted in Italy; she studied over there for a semester in college. She fell in love with the country, and the culture, and that scarf was a reminder of a time when she was young and hopeful and romantic. The scarf was a soft shade of pink, accented with light greens and blues, in a floral watercolour print. She'd wear it on her neck, or in her hair, or draped around her shoulders like a shawl. When the chemotherapy made her lose her hair, she wrapped it around her head. Even then, she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen."

Isaac drew in a shuddered breath. Allison sat him on the bed beside her, and held his hands in her own.

"When she died, my father packed all her scarves into boxes," he continued. "I guess it hurt him too much to look at them, ya know? He wasn't always mean. When my mother was alive, he was actually very fatherly, and even though he was never really affectionate, he spoke kindly to me. He really loved my mother. Losing her broke something within him, and then when my brother died..." Isaac trailed off. Allison cuddled up next to him, reassuring him with her warmth. A gentle touch to chase away the memories of mean ones.

"One weekend, when he was away at a swim meet, I went up to the attic and went through her things. I found her Italian scarf, and I started wearing it to bed at night. It still smelled a little like her. It made me feel like she was there with me. I never wanted to take it off. So I started hiding it in my backpack when I went to school in the mornings, and I would wear it under my sweater. It was lovely and warm, and it reminded me of her hands, how soft they were and gentle.

"Only, I forgot to take it off one day when I came home from school. I can't remember now what distracted me, but when I walked in the door for supper, I was still wearing her scarf, and my father saw it. He asked me what I was wearing, and when I tried to run upstairs, and hide it from him, he grabbed my wrist and wouldn't let go.

"He yelled and screamed. He called me a thief and a mama's boy, and told me that no son of his was going to dress like a faggot. He called me a pansy and a fairy. I won't even repeat the other nasty homophobic slurs he hurled at me." Isaac trembled, and pressed his thumb and index finger to his eyes, and rubbed away an image only he could see.

"You don't have to tell me anymore," Allison whispered, lightly stroking his arm. It was one of the most personal things Isaac had ever shared with her, and she could see how he struggled against the memory.

His lips pulled up slightly in a not-quite smile. He kissed her forehead tenderly. "It's okay," he said. "I just haven't thought about this in a long time." He gazed out her window and continued: "I know he knew the scarf was hers, and despite what he said, I knew he wasn't upset because the scarf made me look effeminate or whatever bullshit he came up with. It hurt him too much to remember, to think of her. And I think he was jealous that I had shared something special and private with her, that I could have this lasting part of her. I honestly thought he was going to strangle me with the scarf."

"What happened?"

"My father tore into me. There was a lot of crying, a lot of bruising, a little of my blood." The detached manner in which he said this, an objective recitation of acts, was unsettling to Allison. "He locked me in my room – but not before he ripped my mother's beautiful silk Italian scarf. Since he's been gone, I've forgiven him a lot of things, but I will _never_ forgive him for that. That night, I watched from my window as he loaded boxes into his car and drove off. It wasn't until the next day, when he let me out, that I realized he had taken my mother's stuff. All of it. Not just the scarves. I don't know what he did with it. Everything was gone, her whole collection. But he didn't get one." Isaac touched the knitted blue scarf around his neck. "This is all I have left of her."

Allison's eyes were wet, and she was trying to hold back her tears. "Your birthday scarf?"

"Yeah." He laughed. "It's obviously a lot shorter on me now than it used to be, but it's my most prized possession. It reminds me of her, of how much she loved me."

With trembling fingers, Allison unfolded the scarf to its full length. She pressed her body tightly against his, and wrapped one end of the scarf around her neck, binding them together. She wanted to feel that again – the security and warmth of a mother's love. "I can feel it," she whispered. "All the love that went into this scarf." She looked into his eyes. She knew how much it had meant to him to be able to share his story with her. She hoped he knew how much it had meant to her to be the one he could share it with.

Allison kissed him, hard. Her mouth urgent and hungry. She wanted him, all of him. She wanted every inch, every memory, every thought. She wanted to become one with him, for their beings to merge together, their hearts and souls, until she forgot where she ended and he began. There was something beautiful in the way he held onto hope, onto goodness, onto beauty, even when he had seen so much ugliness and pain. That he focused on the little pleasures in life, the little things that drove out the darkness. Little things like scarves.

She needed that, needed him, or she'd lose herself to the darkness growing inside her.

Allison kissed him again, and they laid down together on top of her sheets. The scarf still holding them together. He wrapped his arms around her, and she soon felt his heart-rate steady and his breathing slow as he drifted into slumber. She stared at his pale face in the dark, and brushed the hair back from his forehead.

The girl with the crossbow was falling in love with the boy in the scarf.

 **END**


End file.
